Leaflets
by Arbitrary Escape
Summary: Collection of experiments, one-shots, and ideas for future use. Rating set to T.
1. Slaughterhouse Five

Summary: Enough is enough, and I've had it.

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"I quit."

"Excuse me, what?" The Hokage almost choked. He couldn't believe what he just heard. The wrinkles in the aged man's face danced, crackles spreading along his dry skin like the dying embers of my will. The dimly lit lamps in his office are clouded by the shadows, the windows sourcing light from the distant, setting sun.

Kakashia's eyes widened. Sakura and Sasuke's eyes widened too, but I doubt they understood like the old man and the older man did. Iruka's breath sharply cut into itself, his breathing damaged with the taste of hyperventilation.

"Naruto," my 'teacher,' began slowly, "you shouldn't be making jokes like that. Some statements are too bold, you know?"

I turned and looked him dead in the eye. "Hatake. I. Quit."

He swallowed. He looked like he wanted to put a hand on my shoulder; but I supposed he understood that you didn't prod beasts when they backed themselves into a corner. "Naruto. You don't understand."

My eyes flickered to the confused expressions of my agemates. "On the contrary. I, unlike them," I spat, "have always known what my fate was to be. Have accepted myself for who I am and am not. And I understand the Konoha shinobi conducts to a T."

Even though his face was hidden behind the mask, I could tell. The horror spread across his expression, and my gaze could not help but trace the lump in his throat as he swallowed. His hands were shaking. Really. For such an accomplished ninja, you'd think that wearing his emotions right under his sleeve was an impossibility.

I turned and smiled at my nation's leader. "Thank you for what you've done for me in this life." I bowed as best as I could.

"Hold it, idiot; why are you talking like you're…" Sasuke's voice cut off.

My smile widened into a grin that couldn't contain itself. The laughter that accompanied it was also too vibrant; even to my own ears, it was far too pleasant. "You don't know, Sasuke? Well, I guess coming from a ninja family doesn't mean much then."

Kakashi's, and Sarutobi's, eyebrows rose at my slight and Sasuke's expression morphed into a snarl even as he flinched. Before anyone else can say another word, I get out my next sentence. "In most ninja villages, there are no retired shinobi. Can you tell me why?"

His mouth shot off before his brain. "That's easy; missions get dangerous as you get better. And if you don't die on them, you die from the wounds or you get discharged and die from disease or wounds not long after. Sometimes you go mad, and you get locked up."

I chuckled. "Nice try, Sasuke. You're halfway there, but not at all near the marks I'm looking for. That covers what we _want_ people to see."

His brows furrowed, and I saw Sakura pouting. The others seemed frozen. Sarutobi wore a visage of resignation; what I was doing was by no means illegal, just not well-advertised. Kakashi's head bowed low, and Iruka was paling by the second.

"There are no such thing as retired shinobi because retired shinobi are dead shinobi. Inactive shinobi; you ever meet one?" Sasuke nodded, slowly. The Uchiha were a large clan; he had to have seen some. At least, that's what he thought. "Wrong. Inactive shinobi are a myth. They are simply our better used shinobi, and the ones who defend the roots of the tree - they are the true kingsguard."

At that, Sarutobi Hiruzen was visibly startled. His jolted; just a tad, so much so that there was almost no sound from his chair, but I heard it.

"Just get on with it, Naruto," Sakura spouted impatiently.

"Well, there's no time like the present," I said cheerfully. "So I might as well give all of Konoha one last present! You see, when ninja choose to retire, they're usually read their rights and asked if they want to change their minds. I'd say about two thirds of them, maybe three out of four, hesitate and choke on their decision, instead choosing to become 'inactive' or to go back to the force."

The cogs were turning in Sasuke's head, and I could tell he understood, even if his was fighting his brain's acceptance. Sakura, however, was still too ignorant.

"Retired shinobi don't exist," Sasuke began, "because shinobi who give up are already dead. But then… why? Why, with your nindou?"

"All lies have some grain of truth; but if you wash away the fields, those grains will be lost forever."

"Will you someone just tell me what's going on?!"

"Sakura, you may be book-smart, and you may be nerdy, but I really doubt you understand what you signed up for. Did you or your parents read the contract you signed after passing our exam? And if you did, did you read any of the footnotes and their sources?" She shook her head.

"Ah. What a shame, then. You see, after passing your genin exam, you've effectively signed away your life. You don't really understand what that means, so I'll spell it out for you. You've probably been told that you can drink, gamble, and even go to brothels after you've earned a headband! All perks of being all grown-up, right at the ripe age of twelve." My sarcasm hopefully wasn't missed by the young kunoichi. Regardless, I plunged onward.

"You're not an adult when you're a shinobi. You're a tool. A knife, a dagger, a vial of poison; a smile, words, or even a kiss. But you're just a thing. And what do you do with something when it's broken..?"

Her eyes stared in the distance as it began to sink in, and she raised her hands to her mouth in horror. Sakura's next retort turned into a frog that sat itself in her throat and her eyes widened as she stared at me. My eyes flickered back to the old man. "Sometimes, though, if you're… special enough, you're a unique tool that has parts good enough to be recycled." Sasuke turned a bit green at that.

"Why would you choose that?" Her voice hoarse, she fell to the ground as she looked at me. I was already a ghost in her eyes.

Absently, I ran a hand through my locks. Every eye was watching. Waiting. I smiled again.

"Because, Sakura. This is a choice that is my own."


	2. Butterflies and Bumblebees

Summary: So close, but so far. I can't give you what you want.

Rating: T

Tags: slice of life, drama, angst, romance

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Disclaimer: Characters are property of Kishimoto Masashi

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It's the most painful thing in the world to realize that you are so close to first but will never touch the cup; you will never find solace in having the sweetest rivers pour through your trophy of satisfaction. There is no solace in coming further, but the distance is also unbearable. And that nature of the game makes me scream in agony.

Especially in my dreams.

Because there, it is not her, it is me. My own locks that fall down; the very same which you once smirked at and called beautiful. The very same which you once touched with a tenderness that never seemed to exist for anyone else. A touch for you; that's what you told me it was for.

And it was. It was all that and more. I remember the way everything folded over; our schedules, our hearts, our laughs, and our screams. Our limbs and our sheets. Hours that don't have any hold over you anymore, though.

Because it isn't the blue of my eyes that I see mirrored in yours. It's the ocean, green with envy; the tides that drew you in with empty kiss and worse promises, the waves that swept you asunder and took you from my touch. That won the treasure buried under cold waters. That stole from the hell of Davy Jones a heart that wasn't hers to take.

It's not my hair that your fingers run through, blessing them with your Midas' touch. And it's not me on the receiving end of secrets, it's just me received as a secret, smiled at with faint grimace, smirked at with full limits in place. You've given it away. No, you've taken it. I know. It's not mine anymore.

That smile burns a fire that melts the coating of its kindling, the plastic tugged into toxin as it fumes the air. Your laugh makes my jaw clench, words shaking, ringing the teeth inside, singing themselves down my tongue but locked up before the breach.

I hate you. I hate you so much that everything about me screams of Sathanus' envy; and sometimes, I think that Beelzebub lights all the fire in my stomach, too.

But I know it's neither of them, for the demon inside my gut screams and laughs at me, mocks the misery which taints the joy of my smiling facade; it's a dance, a ball of many faceless partners - and the one I hold inside of myself always seems to find a way to come into my arms and sneer at me with genuine displeasure.

A reminder, of sorts, about all the accomplishments I have failed to achieve. Namely, all the tousles I have had with you.

'You cannot create something out of nothing.' Most people would use it to describe the relationship between others; that sparks do not, cannot, fly when there is no flint to begin with.

But between the two of us, that was never the issue. Where there was a breeze, there was wildfire. Where there was cold, we made it burst into an ocean of lust.

It hadn't meant to be this way, you said once. You said a lot of things once. Upon a time when we were young, I guess, is the best excuse, for the past to be just that. Passed on and moved. On your nightstand, I wonder if you even kept any reminders. I wish I kept mine.

The music is getting louder, and I see you waiting at the end. The laughing and the smiling, the whispers and the murmurs. The clapping and the singing. The bells; they're ringing. The keys clack away, each chipping out a tune that carves just a bit deeper, and the whole is swallowed in the blackness. It's sinking.

My heart turns as my eyes catch her form in white, dragging the dress down the aisle. She's showing everything but the one thing I want to see; all of her beauty is on display, and she herself the parade. You did a good job of keeping your secret. My eyes drift to her stomach as my hand rubs mine.

It stings as I remember how happy you were to tell me, how you shushed me with a finger to my lips as you hugged me and laughed, your voice filled with a joy that was foreign to our affair. I catch the smile on her lips and the one on yours. It's not fair. My fingers trace the shape you used to kiss; the tears threaten, but they do not persevere. I swallow thickly, my voice drowned.

No one turns.

You kiss her like your life depends on it. The palm of my hands slam against one another as I force my body to clap and my eyes to close as I plaster on a smile, the rhythm of my tiredness lost in the cacophony surrounding me.


End file.
